Hello you straightlaced lady,
dressed in white but your shoes aren't clean.
Painted them up with polish
in the hope we can't see where you've been.
The smiling face that you've worn
to greet me rising at morning
sent me out to work for my score.
Please me and say what it's for.
Give me the straightlaced promise
and not the pathetic lie.

Tie me down with your ribbons
and sulk when I ask you why.
Your Sunday paper voice cries
demanding truths I deny.
The bittersweet kiss you pretended
is offered, our affair mended.
Sossity: You're a woman.
Society: You're a woman.

All of the tears you're wasting
are for yourself and not for me.
It's sad to know you're aging
Sadder still to admit I'm free.
Your immature physical toy has grown,
too young to enjoy at last your straightlaced agreement:
woman, you were too old for me.
Sossity: You're a woman.
Society: You're a woman.